


thorns

by crushcries



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dissociation, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt No Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Pregnancy Risk, Rape Aftermath, Riding, Vaginal Sex, Victim Blaming, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcries/pseuds/crushcries
Summary: Aragorn draws the wrong kind of attention during a stop in town.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

As she did her usual song and dance with the other patrons, she kept an eye on the hooded man in the corner—and he kept one on her, too. On everyone, she observed. How she wondered about him, all alone in his dark corner, the only one not participating in banter or song though he watched intently.

Rangers often kept to themselves, but if it was to their own volition or due to others' mistrust, she knew not. She found the idea of prodding him to find out quite alluring.

And so she did, rising and wandering away from her busy table, much to the audible displeasure of her brief companions. His gaze openly fell to her as she moved closer—it felt much like approaching a wild animal.

"Why not join the crowd? This is not a night to be spent alone," she suggested, gesturing to the bustling tavern; not one person was lonesome but he.

He shook his head, but spoke pleasantly, "They would not take to my company as easily as yours, my fair lady."

"Perhaps they would find you less frightful were you not hidden away in the shadows," she offered, sincere but with a quirk of humor in her tone.

He dragged on his pipe, momentarily illuminating his face as the embers flared. It was but a small glimpse, yet she'd caught the face beneath the hood—ruggedly handsome, yet bearing tenderness and grace.

"Nay, they would think me so no matter where they happened upon me; whether watching from the shadows, wandering through a sunlit street, or bleeding on their doorstep in need of aid."

That final suggestion was quite the image, and suddenly she wished that they had met under very different circumstances. To have a mighty ranger at her mercy, completely vulnerable…

Her mind drifted to the poison in her pocket. Usually, it was used to lull unpleasant men into unconsciousness so that she could enjoy her night in peace—or to leave men awake but trance-like, under her control during a lay, then leave them with no memory of the incident in the morning. She thought of having this mysterious ranger in a similar state, and heat flared between her legs.

Her pulse picked up. A game had begun—one the ranger knew not of, yet he was a fierce opponent nonetheless. He was watchful, wary of his surroundings and they of him. It would not be so easy to poison him as with the careless men she'd had in the past.

...Or so she had thought. Without a word, she left him for the bar, ordered two pints, then brought them back to the ranger's table. Though she could not see his face well, she got the impression that he was pleasantly surprised at her return.

"Then I shall take company to you," she declared with a smile, offering him one of the mugs.

He hesitated, eyes glinting under the shadow of his hood as he studied her.

He took the mug with a subtle bow of his head. "I could not ask this of you, but only a fool would decline the offer!"

She smiled, then settled down on the bench next to him. She lifted her mug in his direction, and they clacked their drinks together.

Try as she might, she could not get a single detail out of him. Kept to himself, clearly, but he did not seem to mind her presence, prying as she was. He evaded her questions with such grace that had it not been her sole intent, she may have not noticed.

'Strider' he was called. She could not get even his real name—yet, instead of frustration, she felt a spiteful thrill at each of his non-answers. She would get to know him quite intimately soon enough, whether he would will it or not.

When their mugs were drained, she returned to the bar to have them refilled. They were placed back in front of her at the counter, and she kept her back to Strider as she pulled out a small pouch from her pocket, shielding its contents from view. The bartender cocked a brow at her as she sprinkled the poison into Strider's pint, to which she gave him a knowing smile. His brows lifted in acceptance and he looked pointedly away, busying himself with some cups. No concern to be spared for a ranger.

She took the mugs and moved to join Strider once more. He nodded in thanks as she handed him his drink, then dug out a coin from his pocket as she settled back down beside him.

"You needn't pay for your drinks, my lady," he chided softly and handed it to her. "Allow me, in thanks for your company."

She realized he must have seen her reach into her pocket at the bar and assumed in good faith. She could not help but grin, which he interpreted as flatter and smiled back, before they both gulped down their ale. She tried not to let her eyes linger as he drank, lest she give herself away, but she felt a deep satisfaction each time he brought the mug to his lips, only serving to intensify the pulse between her legs.

Soon after draining his second drink, Strider became quite relaxed, his words and movements slow and less precise, yet both more frequent as his face flushed; she no longer had to strive to keep the conversation going. She watched the effects set in over the rim of her mug as she drank, only half listening to the story of adventure he described. As such, she barely caught the slip of his tongue that made him hesitate—a name, she guessed. Not his own.

He dragged a regretful hand over his face, his intoxicated state seeming to finally dawn on him.

"I'm sorry, my dear. I have taken up enough of your time. I think it would be best if I retired for the night."

He stood, a bit too hurriedly, and slammed his hip into the table—hard enough to displace it, but he seemed to feel no pain. His hands quickly came down upon it to steady both it and himself. After his mind caught up, he flashed her an apologetic look, then began to stagger off with a gait she'd witnessed a dozen times.

She also thought it time to retire, but instead she rose with him and feigned disappointment.

"Are you sure? You are no bother—quite possibly the most interesting man here, in fact."

"Yes," he slurred, refusing to meet her eye. "I'm certain."

As he tried to step around her and enter the hall, his shoulder clipped the doorframe, making him stumble. She caught him before he could fall, helping him regain his footing.

"Looks like someone can't handle his alcohol," she teased. He snorted like the idea was ridiculous, but then fell silent, as he could not argue to the contrary given his current state. His face burned redder, and he suddenly found the floor very interesting.

"At least let me make sure you make it to your bed in one piece."

She wrapped an arm around his middle, encouraging him to lean on her.

An argument died on his lips before it began. He relented, laying one of his own across her shoulders for support. They walked together through the hall and up the stairs, Strider guiding their path, and her his feet in a straight line.

Once they reached his room, Strider pulled away from her to slump against the wall, fishing his key out from his pocket. The edge of it bumped into the door, far from his target, so she took his hand in hers, and thought of something else entirely as she helped him guide the key into the lock, smiling to herself as the heat between her legs flared.

He stumbled inside, fumbling with his cloak as she shut and locked the door behind them. His fingers were too unstable to undo his scabbards, resorting to tugging at them in frustration, as if he could brute force them undone. She came to his rescue, undoing the buckles and clasps around his hips and thigh, allowing her fingers to "accidentally" brush against his crotch as she did. She glanced up at him in faux apology and pulled his weapons from his body, surprised by their sheer weight. She marvelled at how strong he must have been to carry them so effortlessly upon his hip, and her knees went weak as she imagined his strong and controlled thrusts—not with a blade.

He nodded in thanks and she set them aside. Strider sat himself on his bed and swayed as he leaned down to fuss with the laces of his boots, mostly succeeding in knotting them further, but giving himself enough slack to slip out anyway. He twisted and pulled his legs up onto the bed, moving to lay on his back with eyes shut. She took a seat on the edge at his side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Shall I fetch you some water?" she offered, for she had no fear the water would wash away his trance. His head rolled from side to side in an exaggerated manner, eyes still closed.

"I'll- be better when I wake."

She leaned closer, murmuring, "Sleep, then."

Strider's eyes fluttered open for but a moment, glazed over and flicking around as if trying to catch a dancing figure. Perhaps he wondered as to her continued presence in his room, but the sleepy feeling in his body seemed to win over nonetheless, and his eyes fell shut for good.

She waited, eyes wandering along his body appreciatively, from his soft-looking lips that she just knew could perform wonders, over his jaw and strong neck, to the rise and fall of his chest and his large, worn hands. She wanted every part of her body to know those hands.

Her gaze moved lower still, and her hands tingled where they'd had the pleasure of brushing against his sex. Her thighs tensed as she squeezed them together, her own sex eager to become acquainted with his.

It was not long before his breathing softened. She brushed a stray hair out of his face and traced her fingers along the curve of his cheek. Not a twitch. Her thumb played at his lips, happy to learn they were indeed as soft as they looked. She bent to capture them against her own, cupping his face in her hand. She did not fear that he would wake, for if he did he would have been in no position to resist her, and likely wouldn't hold the memory till morning.

She kissed him again and again, never daring to press her tongue inside for fear of consuming her own poison. She cherished the feeling of his lips, of his taste; smoke and ale, of his stubble scratching her chin. He did not stir. Her fingers trailed down his neck, traced his collarbone, then moved to the first clasp of his tunic. She drew back and made quick work of them, feeling breathless as she parted the material to bare his torso. Her hands splayed on his chest, rubbing, feeling the lean muscles underneath them, then dragged downwards, in awe of the raw strength beneath her fingertips. He could lift her, easily; could hold and fuck her until she lost all feeling in her legs.

The thought drew a needy whine out of her. Maybe he would have done it, had she asked—but she hadn't asked, and now he was hers for certain.

She stood, ridding herself of her dress and underthings, and abandoned them in a heap on the floor, much like his cloak had been. She crawled back onto the bed with Strider, much closer, so that her bare thigh and flank pressed against him. She lifted his heavy hand to her breast, making him cup her.

"You can have all of me," she whispered and arched into his palm.

His fingers twitched, then curled around her—a mere reflex, making her gasp and moan. She bent to kiss him again, harder, shifting in his grasp to rub her nipple against his rough palm. Her hands clutched desperately at his arm, as if she were a frightened child.

She drew back to shudder, impatient and ever so slick between her legs. She let his arm drop to her lap, his hand hovering teasingly close to her sex. She wished to arch up into his touch, but instead twisted to undo the laces of his breeches and tug them down, revealing her prize. Even soft, it was a large thing, as she'd known it would be. Her sex burned like fire as she took the velvety flesh into her hand, stroking him up and down, nearly worried she would come undone at the mere sight of it.

The muscles in Strider's stomach tightened, a soft sigh falling from his lips as she jerked him. She whimpered in eager anticipation when he began to swell in her palm, and bucked her hips to brush against his dangling fingertips.

She had feared her poison would have ill effect on his stamina, that he would be spent unexpectedly into her palm and lose hardness before she could take him, but it was not so. His cock soon became firm—flushed red and weeping, ready for her.

As much as she wished to taste him, her other lips ached for him more. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and reached between her legs to grasp his cock and angle it upright. Excitement overwhelmed her, making her head feel light, so she paused to catch her breath as her heart raced—but neither slowed, as she could only see the beautiful man that she was about to take in front of her.

She lowered herself to the head of his cock, and it slipped inside her eager, wet folds with no effort, almost as if he wanted it as badly as she. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as she lowered herself further, her walls twinging with both pleasure and pain as she took in his girth—nearly too large for her. Strider was not so silent; a groan bubbled from his chest, the raw nature of it left her gasping as she came to rest on his pelvis, fully sheathing him, with her legs trembling as a newly deflowered virgin's.

She swore she'd never been happier.

She leaned down to kiss him, arching so that her breasts pressed against his chest, while shifting her hips in tiny circles to feel him pressing against her walls. She was completely enveloped in this man who was hers for the night. An elusive, mighty ranger - easily subdued by a pretty face, brought to hardness by her touch, and soon to be undone.

She drew back as she lifted herself, then sank back down, whimpering as the sensation hit her twice as hard as before. As she did, she felt his hips shift underneath her, seeking out more of her heat in his sleep.

_"Yes,"_ she hissed in approval. Her fingers squeezed at his shoulders where they were braced.

She rode him hard. The old bed creaked in complaint at her vigorous rocking, yet Strider was too far under the lull of her poison to ever wake. Still, he shifted some, tensing and untensing as pleasure coursed through his unconscious body, his face lightly contorted. His brows were raised yet creased, his mouth parted as soft sighs and moans fell from his lips. All for her. He was beautiful.

She had foolishly thought she would be able to bring herself to satisfaction and stop herself before he came, but now the thought of that exactly was what pushed her on, invigorated by the idea of him unknowingly—unwillingly—releasing inside of her. She watched him intently, waiting for a sign as her own orgasm drew nearer, and saw him getting more and more restless—his back arched lightly, his head rolled from side to side, his hands fisted in the sheets.

Finally, she felt his hips begin to stutter upwards into hers, seeking release, each thrust more intent than the last—then a cry, his pace breaking as every muscle in his body flexed and tensed at once. She needed no friction, ecstasy overwhelmed her to the brink of tears as she came back down on him one final time.

"Yes! Yes, my love! Yes…"

She rode out her orgasm from her place perched upon his hips, grinding down against him as the last waves of pleasure left her. As she caught her breath, she looked upon her lover. He must have been badly in need of release, filling her with such a thick load—she could already feel it leaking out of her. He looked at peace, so relaxed that he might dissolve into the soft bedding below. She'd done him a kindness, surely.

Still panting, she pulled off of him and settled on the bed with her legs spread, regarding the thick white substance between her thighs fondly. So fondly, in fact, that as she finally reclaimed her breath and the trembling in her body faded, more wisps of arousal began to course through her. Especially as she gazed upon Strider and found that he was still erect, cock still rosy and wanting.

Of course. A lonely road it must be for a ranger… a single round could never have been enough for him! The poor thing must have been so pent up. It was a good thing that she was around to help, she thought as she climbed atop him once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aftermath chapter.
> 
> **cw dissociation, victim blaming, overall just very unkind treatment towards male victims of rape that is not resolved, misogynistic/whorephobic terms used by intentionally shitty characters**
> 
> (rape is rape no matter the genders of the perpetrator and victim.)

He dreamt of Arwen.

It was not a dream of tender memories—no, it was a bizarre, hazy, lust-filled dream of his own mind's making, that seemed to stretch on forever. The only consistency was the feeling in his loins and the heaviness of his limbs, the rest ever-shifting. One moment she was perched atop him, the next her lips were wrapped around his length, all with some seamless but unseen transition. Sometimes he felt suffocated by her kisses, as if she'd stolen the very air from his lungs.

The moment he woke he thought it odd, as he was not prone to such hormonal fantasies, even in slumber.

Coming to his senses took longer than normal. What he first noticed was how sick he felt—which was to be expected, as he recalled he'd gotten quite heavily intoxicated before retiring to bed (which was _odd,_ given that he had not drank very much.) Then he felt a draft, and looked down to see he was in a state of undress.

A very unnatural state of undress.

It wasn't hard to put the pieces together from there, especially with the arousal crusted around the base of his cock, caked into the tufts of hair there.

He had not been treated gently, either; he bore bruises on his arms, and especially his shoulders—yellow and purple handprints had been pressed into one side, and rows of bloody crescent cuts covered the other. He remembered dreaming of Arwen squeezing him there in the throes of pleasure.

He had to pay the innkeeper extra for being sick on the bed and the floor.

It was a small town, and the innkeeper knew enough about the woman he'd been speaking with that night to point him in the right direction. Even as he started off in search of her with an uneasy mind and unsettled stomach, Aragorn never considered not confronting her; she'd committed an evil deed, and as a ranger he could not merely allow her to keep poisoning and using men to her wishes.

It did not take long to track her down. She didn’t seem surprised to see him when he happened upon her in the streets, though she stiffened at his expression.

“Strider?” she chirped innocently. He didn’t answer, instead grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her away to shove her against the wall of a nearby building. He easily towered over her, leaning into her space with a scowl.

“Was it you yourself, or did you merely deliver the poison for another?”

He kept his voice low and steady despite the way his heart raced and stomach churned. She was just like any other criminal, he told himself. Chanted in his mind. Made it a mantra.

She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

 _“Don’t,”_ he spit, then continued, harsher. “Were there others?”

“I…” She paused, swallowing thickly. Her eyes flicked away from his face for just a moment, peering around him, then she looked back, the tension draining out of her as she wet her lips.

He felt it at that moment—the hostility surrounding him. His nerves jumped as he whirled around, free hand gripping the hilt of his blade with the other still tight on her arm. Instead of finding her accomplices as he'd expected, he saw a thin crowd of townspeople, eyeing the scene with contempt—and not for his rapist. No, it was then it occurred to him that he—a large, imposing, armed ranger—had a dainty girl pinned to the wall. _He_ must have looked like the assailant to their eyes. They would never have believed she had wronged him so to warrant such treatment—that she even possessed the power to do so.

He took a step back, allowing her to sink back down onto her heels. He stared out at the crowd, shame flickering through him. _Poor girl,_ they must have thought, _getting cornered by a frightful man like that._

If he couldn’t be trusted to carry out his own justice, then he could have something formal done about it. His grip tightened around her arm again, and he tugged her with him as he strode towards the guardhouse. Some of the crowd followed a ways, voicing their disapproval, but he was not taking her down a secluded path, so none were pushed into any real action.

Inside, the man at the desk’s posture fell somewhat at the sight of him, clearly dreading seeing Strider's likeness once more. The woman struggled fruitlessly in his grip as he pulled her up to the desk.

“Gladwine, this woman is a menace. I must insist that she is jailed and tried for her actions,” he announced. Gladwine sighed, then grabbed a pen and paper while eyeing her with doubt.

“What’d she do, steal something?”

Aragorn hesitated. “She is rapist who deals in sleeping poisons.”

Aragorn wanted to shrink back at his incredulous look, for it was directed at _him_ and not the woman.

“How do you figure?”

Some part of Aragorn faltered at having to describe her actions, but he figured it had to be done in the name of justice. He steeled himself, drawing a deep breath.

“I- experienced it firsthand this last night, and I’m sure that if you asked around you’d find that I am not the only one. She was far too confident in her abilities not to be practiced.

"She brought me a mug of poisoned ale"—how foolish he was to have accepted it—"and followed me up to my room once the effects had begun to set in."

He felt the first inklings of a tremor go through him, and released his grip on the woman’s arm before she could feel it in his hands. He stared her down hard as she took a step back, head bowed in—he hoped—shame. There was a light flush upon her cheeks, though it was no match for his own, he feared. He looked back up as the lawman sighed, shoulders slumping as he set the pen down in disinterest. He looked tiredly at Aragorn before turning his gaze to the girl.

“Is this true?”

Alarm rang through Aragorn as he realized it was _not_ going to be treated as a formal case.

“I—” She flushed deeper, shifting away with fidgeting hands. “I just wanted some company for the night…”

Aragorn snapped, “I’m sure there were several men who would have been happy to provide that to you - willingly!”

She did not flinch.

Gladwine exhaled through his nose. “Miss, you’re free to go.”

The pair looked up in shock.

“What?”

“Look, Strider, as much as I… appreciate… your dedication to justice, a woman cannot be a rapist,” he claimed. “Maybe if she had assaulted another lass… but that is not the case.”

Aragorn just stared, frozen in place as his mind hitched, because—how could all of his pain not be enough? But then he quickly pressed on, scrambling for anything he could use to convince him.

“But- but the _poison,”_ he tried.

“—Is clearly no cause for concern.” Gladwine said. “You’re still standing here, aren’t you?”

Aragorn stared.

Gladwine shook his head. “I am not opening a case just because you couldn’t handle a wily whore."

Aragorn heard a breath hitch beside him before the woman turned heel and ran.

Gladwine tucked his paperwork away. Aragorn stood there, shame stinging the back of his neck like white hot needles buried in the skin. It scorched his face, and rolled heavily through his stomach.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Gladwine asked flatly, only as a formality.

Aragorn took a step back, still staring, testing his feet. His whole world felt it might shift and shatter around him. Then he turned, and took small, careful steps towards the exit, feeling Gladwine’s judgemental gaze upon his back.

It was still midday, yet as he stepped outside it was nearly too dark to see, and too bright, also. His mind and feet wandered in tandem, barely taking in the sneers from the townsfolk around him. His mind drifted back to images and sensations no matter how much he wished it would not; of his exposed, dirtied state upon waking up (why hadn't he bathed?); of how he'd been used (why? How could it be?); of manipulated dreams (how could he face Arwen after such a thing?)

Arwen. What of Arwen? How would he tell her? How could he ever apologize enough? ...Would she still want him?

He thought of these things, detached, finding no answers, yet his mind looped through them over and over, as though they were a puzzle he could solve if he just tried hard enough.

“Strider.”

Fear panged through him before he even placed the voice. His surroundings suddenly formed around him, like a thick fog had cleared up. He found himself standing a short ways from **her.** She was sat with her back against a building, face red and tear tracks curving down her cheeks. His wandering thoughts fled, leaving him with… nothing. Nothing replaced them. He was but nerves and instinct.

He straightened up, facing her fully, as he would with most other threats.

“You…” She stood abruptly, whatever had her shedding tears before long gone. His panicked mind could not parse the tone she’d spoken with as he stepped back.

“How could I have passed you up?” she wondered, voice laced with false tenderness as she eyed him hungrily. Fear struck his heart into his stomach, ice curling around his limbs. Why hadn't he cast his hood up?

For each step he took back, she took one forward.

“You liked it,” she whispered. Hissed. Moaned.

“No...”

“— _Wanted_ it.”

His back hit a wall. “I was asleep! I wanted nothing but to _rest!”_

He tried to sound angry. He just sounded scared.

She was on him before he could duck and twist away, trapping him against the wall with her body. She pushed her bosom against his chest and her hips to his, and Aragorn flinched at the contact as though it burned. His palms flattened against the building at his sides, afraid to touch her, afraid any contact he initiated would be taken as an invitation, afraid it would taint him further.

Her hands came to touch his waist and he jerked again.

“You were so good for me…”

His knees shook, and some part of him thought it was ridiculous because she was so, so small. He towered over her, even now, but she _felt_ so much larger, threatening to swallow him whole. Her gaze was bright and dark and happy and evil.

Movement caught his eye—bystanders. It was all happening in broad daylight, and they were _laughing._ Laughing at her boldness, at his panicked expression. They did not help. Didn’t see the need to.

“You made such beautiful sounds.”

He could have cried in shame. His heart was in his throat, suffocating him until he thought he would vomit. Her hand crept up to his shoulder, using it as leverage to lean up and whisper into his ear, _”Your hand curled around my breast…”_

“Stop!”

He shoved at her, all his force behind it. It was too much. She was hurled at the ground, head first, hitting it hard.

He'd only meant to push, to reclaim some space to run, to stop her vile words.

He stood still, horrified, long enough to see her right herself, nursing her head in her hands. Bystanders rushed to her side, curses falling heavy from their tongues at him.

He bolted.

He paced on the outer edge of the city. He'd wanted to flee completely, to just return to the wilds where he was alone and, if not, then it was in his hands to decide how he dealt with it. He would have been fine without supplies, he’d managed before and much worse off.

But he’d paid for his room in advance, and he was having equipment repaired—some of it valuable or treasured, some partially paid for already—and while he didn’t care for the money, the thought of leaving it all behind made him hesitate long enough that he caught his breath and his insides stopping feeling as though they were clawing at his skin, wanting _out_ and _away._

He decided to stay. It was only one day more, anyways. He skirted the edge of town as the sun began to fall over the horizon, then made a beeline for the inn. His heart slammed in his chest as he approached the doors and entered, yet he did not feel the fear, for his mind was floating once more. He asked to be moved into another room, then ordered a bath.

He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, but it seemed the filth was just another aspect of his flesh now.

He ordered no food nor drink, and he did not sleep. He suspected it would be long before he took any comfort in either again.

He once tried sitting on the bed, but he thought he recalled the creaking sound it made from his dream and settled for a chair instead. There he waited overnight, planning out his road ahead; which paths he’d take, how he’d accomplish his task, and considered heading back to Imladris after. He felt he’d take great comfort in being amongst the elves again. Even if he didn’t plan to speak of it, he knew they’d understand—elves couldn’t survive such things, it left a mark on their spirits too heavy to bear. They’d understand the pain, male or female or otherwise.

(Then again, maybe they’d see him as a freak; some dirty, dreadful thing that shouldn’t be alive.)

He waited until well passed the estimated times he’d been given, into the late afternoon, to assure that he could quickly collect all his things and be on his way, with no need to linger and risk another encounter. He slipped out the back of the inn, to avoid the tavern as much as possible. The craftsmen seemed surprised—or perhaps ‘relieved’ was a better word—when he returned to pay in full. If any of them were aware of his... interactions with **her,** they did not mention it.

He began making his way out of the city. Once the road beyond was within his sight, he allowed himself some hope that maybe he would manage to escape without a final encounter with _her._

“Leaving so soon?”

Of course, his fortune would not have it so.

She spoke with the same kind of sweetness that she had when they'd first met, a tone that once lulled him into a false sense of security but now only made him feel sick. Some part of his conscience was put at ease seeing her moving about, without so much as a bandage around her head. Another part, lesser, was disappointed.

He did not freeze this time. He stared hard ahead, moving right passed her without engaging. She was just a girl. Just a girl. Just a—

She grabbed his arm, tugging hard enough to halt his movement. He cast her a hard glare, to which she smiled.

“If you’re upset that you missed out, we could always do something while you’re awake to make up for it.”

Her posture was playful as she batted her lashes, but she _grinned._ It was no misguided attempt at an apology—she just thought it was _funny._

He snarled and ripped his arm away. She barely looked dissuaded.

“Just leave me be!” he demanded, though it bordered on a plea. “You’ve had your fun—I am not your plaything!”

A spark glinted in her eyes at his words, and Aragorn felt his face flush as her train of thought hit him as well - that he _had_ been. Still was, for as long as he was near her.

He turned and resumed walking at a pace he hoped was too wide for her to keep up with.

“What if I end up with your child?”

He froze.

“You wouldn’t leave us all alone, would you?”

Awful images flooded his mind. Would he be tracked down and forced to marry her? _**Her**_ — Stuck _her_ for life? And if not, did he really want to risk his child being stuck with her? If he grew to have his looks, would she mistreat him as she did Aragorn?

He thought he’d finally gotten a handle on himself, but panic gnawed at his gut once more. His limbs shook, and he felt small. Trapped. His very insides wanted to tear out and flee.

But his road was still ahead of him, his task, and his path would eventually lead him back to the safety of Imladris. To Arwen, if she’d still have him.

He kept his back to her and his eyes forward, but turned his head just enough to speak over his shoulder.

“That is your problem to sort out. Not mine.”

And he went on.


End file.
